Part 12

“Dey shore got through wid demselves powerful soon,” he muttered to himself as he lighted a fresh cigarette upon the stub of the old one. “Dey ain’t been married but ’bout three years, an’ deir baby tuck de prize at de baby show.”

He propped his chair back against the trunk of the tree, tipped his derby hat down upon the bridge of his nose, put his shoe-heels inside the front rungs of the chair, and puffed his smoke in deep meditation.

“Wonder how come dey busted up?” he mused aloud in a low tone. “I reckin it’s one of dese here do-mes-tic in-feli-city cases. _Hush!_ Look at who’s drawin’ nigh!”

The front legs of Skeeter’s chair came down upon the sand with a thump, he straightened his derby upon his closely shaved head, adjusted his high collar, and his noisy cravat, and waited.

Whiffle Bone came around the rear of the saloon, leading her two-year-old boy by the hand. Skeeter sprang up, gave her a chair, and seated himself. The baby dropped upon the ground and began the construction of a sand house.

Not a word was spoken until both were comfortably seated, then Shin Bone’s wife began:

“Me an’ Shin is picked a fuss wid each yuther an’ quit.”

“Yes’m,” Skeeter answered sympathetically.

The woman sat twisting her nervous hands, biting her lips, and turning at intervals to look behind her as if she expected some one to follow her. Finally she leaned over, rested her elbows upon her lap and her head upon her hands and began to cry, wailing like a calliope.

“Lawdymussy!” Skeeter gasped sucking the stub of his lighted cigarette into his mouth in his surprise. He sprang up, gagged, clawed at his lips, dancing first on one foot, then on the other.

“Aw, hush!” Skeeter howled at last, when he had rescued himself from the fire. “Shut up! Ef you wanter bust up wid Shin Bone, bust--but don’t beller! Ef you wanter cornfess up to me about yo’ troubles, bawl out--but don’t beller! Ef you wanter pull my leg fer a few loose change to git back to yo’ home folks, go ahead an’ pull--but fer _Gawd’s_ sake, don’t beller! Dis ain’t de right season of de year fer a long wet spell like you done started--it’ll spile de craps!”

Any married man could have told Skeeter that the best way to turn a light summer shower into a cloud-burst of rainfall was to admonish a woman not to cry. As it was, Skeeter learned this fact on this occasion by hard experience. The louder Skeeter bawled, the louder Whiffle Bone “bellered,” and finally Skeeter sat down in despair and began to fiddle with a brass wrist-watch which he wore.

Gradually Whiffle’s wails died down to an occasional blobbering gurgle, like water pouring out of the choked neck of a bottle. When she straightened up and began to mop the tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron, Skeeter inquired:

“Whut made you an’ Shin explode yo’ fambly life?”

“Money!” Whiffle answered shortly. “I done all de cookin’ an’ de waitin’ on at our eatin’-house. Shin, he done light haulin’ wid de hoss an’ wagin, cut all de wood, an’ hauled it outen de swamp, an’ cleant up de eatin’-house befo’ breakfust in de mawnin’.”

“You-all ’vided up yo’ wuck pretty even,” Skeeter remarked.

“Yes, suh. But Shin, he argufy dat de money oughter be ’vided up even, too; me, I argufy dat I oughter keep all de money an’ gib Shin jes’ as much as I figgered he oughter hab.”

“Cain’t you-all compermise yo’ ’spute no way?” Skeeter inquired.

“De only way fer Shin to compermise wid me is to comp’ on my own terms,” Whiffle wailed. “Ain’t dat so?”

“Yes’m,” Skeeter agreed readily. “Sometimes a nigger man kin compermise wid a woman an’ git her to take his own terms; but fust of all, he’s got to bounce ’bout seven rocks offen her head.”

This remark started Whiffle again, and the sobs began to pop from her throat like the exhaust of a gasoline engine.

“Aw, shuckins!” Skeeter grumbled. “Now I done gone an’ punched a hole in de water-barrel agin. Shut up, Whiffle! You’s too durn moistuous to suit me--ef I ’a’ knowed you wus cornin’ here to wet me wid all yo’ fambly troubles, I’d borrered a rubber divin’-suit!” In his exasperation, Skeeter hurled his cigarette-stub to the ground, and sat glaring around him, wondering what to do.

Whiffle’s baby picked up the cigarette-stub, put the lighted end into his mouth, and emitted a yelp which raised Skeeter out of his chair, and which trailed off into a series of shuddering wails like the call of a screech-owl.

“My good gosh!” Skeeter howled, glaring indignantly at the youngster and his mother. “De ole she-bear an’ de cub _bofe_ at it now! Whut you wanter wish all dis Gulf of Mex’co full of tears onto me fer? I’s gwine build me a Noer’s ark!”

Whiffle promptly forgot her tears in an effort to assuage the grief of her son.

“Po’ little pickaninny--mammy’s little darlin’!” she crooned, as she lifted him upon her lap. “You want mammy to sing you a song? Listen, honey, shet yo’ eyes an’ shet yo’ mouf, an’ cock yo’ ears an’ listen!”

The tears were glistening upon her wet cheeks, as she drew the little boy close to her and crooned:

“De black pot’s bigger dan a fryin’ pan, An’ upon dis groun’ I takes my stan’-- I’d druther be a nigger dan a po’ white man!”

“Huh!” Skeeter Butts murmured to himself as he watched the woman and her child. “I wonder do she really love dat kid, or is she huggin’ him jes’ to spite Shin Bone? I never knowed who my mammy or daddy wus, an’ I don’t got no way to find out.”

As the woman sang, she looked off across the spaces, focusing her tear-wet eyes upon the purple haze which hung above the Little Moccasin Swamp. In a moment, the whimpering of the baby ceased, and his tired head rested in sleep upon his young mother’s ample bosom. After a while Whiffle reverted to her trouble with her husband.

“I been keepin’ all de money sence we wus married, Skeeter, so when me an’ Shin quit I jes’ tied up de loose change in a stockin’-toe an’ fotch it away wid me. Dat leaves Shin de eatin’-house an’ de hoss an’ wagin.”

“I figger dat wus fair,” Skeeter replied in an earnest desire to be propitiatory and prevent any more tears.

“Whut I come to see you ’bout is dis, Skeeter: who do dis little pickaninny b’long to?” and as she spoke, Whiffle hugged the little boy closer to her and gazed down fondly on his tear-marked face.

Skeeter saw here another opportunity to break up the fountains of the great deep and start a flood of tears, so he sought for a diplomatic answer in hope of preventing a crevasse.

“Shin is his daddy, you is his mammy--he b’longs to you bofe,” Skeeter replied.

“I figger dat he is my chile,” Mrs. Bone said, beginning to sniffle.

“Yes’m,” Skeeter answered hastily. “I thinks so, too!”

“Shin figgers dat little Shinny is his chile,” Mrs. Bone remarked, sniffling some more.

“Yes’m,” Skeeter grunted. “Yes’m! Dat’s so!”

“I’s got de chile now, but Shin say he’s gwine take him away from me,” Mrs. Bone declared, and now the shower of tears began with a rush. “Whut muss I do?”

“You mought stop dis weepin’-willer, deep-mournin’ stunt till I kin git my brains to thinkin’,” Skeeter suggested. “You gib me de muddlegrubs cuttin’ up like dis! Why don’t you take de chile an’ run off somewheres?”

“’Twon’t do no good,” Whiffle sobbed. “Shin would foller atter me an’ take little Shinny away!”

“You mought let Shin keep him half de time, an’ you keep him half de time,” Skeeter proposed.

“Ef Shin ever gits holt of dis boy, he’ll keep him all de time,” Whiffle wailed.

“Aw, mud!” Skeeter vociferated, staring at the weeping woman. “I never seed sech a puddle as you make out of yo’se’f. Dry up!”

The conversation ceased for about ten minutes, but the silence was constantly shattered by the cork-popping sobs of Whiffle.

“Skeeter,” she pleaded finally, “would you wish to he’p me keep my little boy all fer myse’f? I kin take better keer of him dan Shin.”

“Yes’m, I’s willin’ to he’p,” Skeeter said uncertainly. “You see, I ain’t never been married an’ I don’t know nothin’ ’bout chillun or deir mammies. I don’t know jes’ perzackly whut I kin do. It might be dangersome fer a igernunt nigger like me to butt into mattermony matters.”

“’Tain’t no danger,” Whiffle replied quickly. “Shin is gwine try to steal dis chile from me ternight, an’ I wants you to he’p me guard him.”

Skeeter lighted a cigarette and sat puffing at it for a long time. Then his eyes began to sparkle, and he said with a chuckle:

“I’ll take you up on dat, Whiffle.”

“Whut is you gwine do?” Whiffle asked, her face shining with relief.

“I dopes it out like dis,” Skeeter answered. “A new nigger woman is visitin’ in dis town, an’ me an her begun to shine up to each yuther real prompt. She’s got a little boy jes’ de size an’ age an’ color of dis here brat of your’n.”

“Dat don’t he’p me none,” Whiffle mourned.

“When I talks--you listen!” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t try to bake no biscuits till I git done mixin’ de dough! All I wants you to do is to git de repote to Shin Bone private an’ confidential dat you is gwine out of town fer a little rest an’ dat I will keep yo’ baby till you gits back. Atter dat, jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”

“But ef I takes him wid me, you won’t hab him,” Whiffle whined.

“Oh, my big toe!” Skeeter snarled. “I don’t blame Shin Bone fer gittin’ a deevo’ce--you ain’t got no sense! Whut I means is dis: I’ll borrer my lady frien’s little boy to-night. Shin will git de repote dat I am keepin’ little Shinny. Of co’se, Shin will come to de Hen-Scratch an’ swipe de chile I’m got an’ run away. When daylight comes, he’ll discover dat he’s got some yuther nigger’s boy!”

“I sees,” Whiffle whimpered. “But ef Shin come an’ swipes de wrong baby, whut will yo’ lady frien’ say to you?”

“Nothin’,” Skeeter replied. “She won’t hab no kick-back. Of co’se, when Shin finds out dat he’s got de wrong pup by de year, he’ll jes’ nachelly fotch him back to his real maw. Nobody don’t want somebody else’s yearlin’.”

“Dat’s right,” Whiffle muttered. “I’d hate to loant my honey boy fer dat puppus, but mebbe yo’ lady frien’ is diff’unt. I’ll succulate de repote of me leavin’ so Shin kin git it.”

“Good-by!” Skeeter grinned.

* * * * *

A few minutes after Whiffle had gone, Skeeter Butts left his business in charge of his assistant and started toward the home of Mustard Prophet, where his new friend was visiting. He found her sitting on the porch, entertaining her little boy.

“Howdy, Happy!” he greeted her. “How’s you an’ de little boy to-day?”

“Us is feelin’ fine,” Happy smiled. “How come you is runnin’ aroun’ when you oughter be keepin’ bar?”

“I come to cornverse you ’bout a little bizzness,” Skeeter answered promptly.

“Come up an’ set down!” the young woman invited, pushing aside and making a place for him on the bench she occupied. “Rest yo’ hat, put yo’ foots on de porch rail, light a cigar, wind yo’ watch--jes’ make yo’se’f at home.”

“Yes’m,” Skeeter grinned, as he seated himself beside her. “Yo’ name is shore a good sign of yo’ disposition--bofe is happy. But, Happy, ef yo’ name gimme de lock-jaw eve’y time I pernounced it, it would still taste awful good to me!”

“You muss hab kissed de coal-oil can befo’ you lef’ de Hen-Scratch, Skeeter,” Happy responded. “Yo’ nigger tongue is mighty slick!”

Skeeter ignored the remark and looked the woman over with appraising eyes. She was tall, slim, graceful, dark-skinned, bright-eyed, with an easy-smiling, good-natured mouth. Her home was in Baton Rouge, her dress and manner bespoke the city, and Skeeter’s susceptible heart was deeply affected.

“Dat’s a beautiful chile,” Skeeter remarked fondly, as he gazed at the little boy who sat on the floor trying to see how close he could poke his finger toward the business end of a wasp without getting stung.

“Yes, suh, I’s shore proud of my baby,” the woman smiled.

“Would you loant him to me fer a little while to-night, Happy?” Skeeter asked.

“Whut you wanter do wid him?”

“He’s such a diff’unt-lookin’ kid to all dese here dirty pickaninnies in dis town dat I flggered it would be a good edgercation fer dese here home niggers to see him,” Skeeter recited glibly. “Me an’ Sheriff Flournoy follers up de Nigger Uplift Movement, an’ I don’t know nothin’ dat’ll put good notions in a nigger’s head like gittin’ a look at dis nice, dean, dressy nigger boy.”

“Ain’t it de trufe!” Happy exclaimed proudly.

“Yes’m,” Skeeter continued. “I figger dat I could take yo’ little boy to de Hen-Scratch to-night, show him off, brag on him, an’ make dese home niggers ashamed of deir offsprings--ain’t dat so?”

“Shore is!” Happy replied. “I wisht I could be dar an’ hear you brag yo’ brags on him.”

“’Tain’t possible,” Skeeter exclaimed quickly. “Womans ain’t be allowed in de Scratch. But ef yo’ little boy makes a hit, I might could git de Revun Vinegar Atts to gib a baby show at de Shoofly chu’ch, an’ I’m shore yo’ little boy would tote off de prize.”

“You kin hab him, Skeeter!” the woman exclaimed exultantly. “You come fer him to-night atter supper. I’ll hab him all dressed up like a circus bandwagon. Only I gibs you dis advice right now: don’t grab my chile by de lef’ arm onless you wants him to sot up a howl. Dat arm is powerful sore!”

“I’ll lead him by de han’ like a gen’leman,” Skeeter grinned. “Whut is de name he’s called by?”

“I calls him Ready Rocket--atter his deceasted paw,” Happy told him.

“I’ll come by fer him atter dark, Mrs. Rocket,” Skeeter declared, as he reached for his hat. “Git him ready.”

As Skeeter walked down the street a new idea came to him.

“Dat woman is gwine dress up dat kid like a Mardi Gras, an’ Shin won’t swipe him--Shin’ll know dat ain’t his’n. I wonder is Whiffle lef’ town yit?”

Skeeter hastened to Pap Curtain’s cabin and found that Whiffle had not.

“Whiffle,” he said, “I come mighty nigh fergittin’ a mos’ important bizzness. I want some of little Shinny’s ole ragged clothes. Ef Shin comes to steal dat yuther brat to-night, we got to fix him up so Shin won’t find out de cub ain’t his’n.”

“I got plenty ragged clothes,” Whiffle replied. “I’ll git you a full suit.”

“When is you leavin’ out fer de hog-camp, Whiffle?” Skeeter asked as soon as the suit was wrapped in a bundle.

“I’s gittin’ ready to walk right now,” Whiffle told him.

“Dat’s a good idear to walk it,” Skeeter remarked. “You kin take shawt cut-offs through de woods, an’ ef anybody is passin’ you kin hide in de grass so dey cain’t see you is got little Shinny wid you.”

“It’s a powerful long walk,” Whiffle complained. “But I guess I’m got to take it.”

“You kin come back in de mawnin’,” Skeeter assured her, as he rose to go. “When Shin finds out he’s made a miscue an’ stole de wrong chile, de Tickfall niggers will buzz him till he leaves town fer good.”

It was sundown when Skeeter got back to the saloon, and he ate his supper and waited impatiently until the darkness was heavy enough for him to venture after Happy’s son. At last he slipped to her cabin, lifted the laughing little fellow upon his shoulders, and carried him back to the rear room of his saloon.

“Huh,” Skeeter grunted as he turned on the light and surveyed the boy. “Happy shore has put de paradise rags on Ready Rocket. He looks like a valumtime. I don’t b’lieve he’ll feel half as comf’able in dem gyarmints as he will in dese sensible clothes.”

Then for the first time in his life Skeeter began to undress a baby. His inexperienced hands were as clumsy as if he wore boxing-gloves; he felt around the garments for buttons and stuck pins in himself; he unhitched parts of the little fellow’s harness and found to his surprise that they were connected with other parts of his clothes which apparently had no way of being detached. The sweat popped out on Skeeter’s face, his fingers trembled, and his lips were drawn in a straight, nervous line.

“Gosh!” he sighed. “Dis is de hardest wuck I ever done, an’ I ain’t done it yit. Dis job ain’t even good started. It would take about fo’teen womans to undress dis valumtime doll. I bet his maw melted him in a cookin’ pot an’ poured him into dese clothes.”

He struggled on, jerking and pulling, but accomplishing little. Then he straightened up and surveyed his task.

“Ef I could button dem clothes on de way dey wus at fust, I’d put little Shinny’s rags on over ’em,” he announced to himself. Then he shook his head hopelessly. “’Tain’t no use tryin’ dat. I gotter study dis problem out an’ git dem bliss rags off!” He turned the boy around to take a comprehensive survey of the mystery. Then he found a button in the rear and undid it. The clothes fell off of little Ready Rocket like the last leaf off of a tree, leaving the limbs bare.

“Dar now!” Skeeter snickered. “Ain’t dat funny! Dis here is a one-button suit. You press de button an’ lo an’ beholes!”

He looked the tiny black-skinned chunk of humanity over. On Ready’s left arm he found an ugly scar.

“Looks like a fresh vaccinate mark to me,” he muttered. “I mighty nigh fergot whut Happy tole me ’bout dat sore arm.”

He brought a bright red stick of candy out of his pocket and placed it in Ready Rocket’s willing hand.

“Now, sonny,” he whispered. “You suck dat sugar-stick an’ fergit dat I is changin’ yo’ clothes. I cain’t handle dese city duds, but I knows how to put on little Shinny’s overalls an’ shirt beca’se I wore dem kind of drapery my own se’f.”

The little fellow murmured no complaint at the operation except when Skeeter momentarily separated his hand from his mouth and deprived him of his sugar-stick. But Skeeter quickly made the proper connection again, and when the child was dressed in little Shinny’s old clothes, Skeeter tossed the glad rags into a dark corner, lifted Ready in his arms, and carried him out on the street.

“Now, sonny,” he said, as he placed Ready on the ground, “us ’ll take a long, long walk!”

He started straight down the middle of the sandy road, the little boy trotting beside him sucking his candy. A quarter of a mile had been covered in this way when Ready Rocket dropped his candy.

“Ah-hah!” Skeeter said, as he picked up the sticky candy, wiped a little of the sand and dust off it, and stuck it back in Ready’s gaping mouth. “Dat’s a good sign--you is gittin’ tired an’ sleepy.”

They turned around and started back toward the saloon, Skeeter pressing the boy to walk as fast as he could. Half a dozen times in the return walk the little fellow dropped his candy and finally Skeeter grew tired of Ready’s carelessness. He merely picked up the sticky substance and helped Ready make connection with his mouth and hand, without taking the trouble to wipe off the dirt.

“Ef you git de colic eatin’ dat gorm of sugar an’ dirt, I hopes Shin Bone will hab you to wait on,” Skeeter remarked to his charge. “I ain’t got no expe’unce wid some yuther nigger’s stomick-ache.”

Within two blocks of the barroom, Ready’s little feet stopped like a clock with a broken spring. Skeeter dragged him for a few steps by the arm. Then he lifted the sleeping child, carried him to a ragged quilt in a corner of the rear room, and laid him down. The child’s tiny hand still clutched the muddy sugar-stick.

Skeeter entered the saloon and took his place behind the bar to wait for Shin Bone. He did not have long to wait, and when Shin Bone appeared Skeeter gasped, and his hand slipped to the little shelf under the bar where his automatic pistol rested.

Shin had been drinking heavily, but the liquor had not made him noisy. He was extremely quiet. He walked restlessly about the barroom with the prowling movements of a cat, careful not to make a noise with his feet as he staggered across the floor, answering if spoken to in a whisper, and glancing nervously around him all the time. The practised eyes of the negroes recognized the signs of danger. They knew Shin was out to kill. Some slipped away, and all the others became perfectly quiet. They knew that a loud laugh, the noise of an overturned chair, the breaking of a glass, the clatter of a stick falling to the floor, any of these things might start the drink-crazed negro to shooting. Shin had not only never been drunk before, but no one had ever seen him drinking. But now no jungle beast was more dangerous.

Finally Shin walked straight up to Skeeter and leaned against the bar.

“Skeeter, is you got my little boy?” he inquired in a low tone with exaggerated courtesy.

“Dar’s a little pickaninny sleepin’ on a quilt in de back room, Shin,” Skeeter answered uneasily.

“I wants him,” Shin remarked.

“He ain’t no kinnery of mine, Shin,” the barkeeper retorted. “Ever who owns him kin hab him.”

“Dis here sinful saloom ain’t no fitten place fer my angel chile,” Shin remarked in the same low, deadly tone.

“His maw axed me to keep him, Shin,” Skeeter said. “Of co’se, a daddy is got de fust right to his own baby an’ I’s jes’ tryin’ to be friends on bofe sides.”

“You ain’t no friend of mine,” Shin told him flatly. “I ain’t huntin’ no friends. I’s huntin’ revengeance!”

Shin walked away, muttering to himself.

Skeeter listened and heard Shin stumble across the floor in the rear room. With a loud grunt he stooped over the soiled quilt where Ready Rocket lay. With a louder grunt, he lifted the boy in his arms, and Skeeter heard him stagger to the door and close it quietly behind him.

A few minutes later Skeeter heard a loud wail down the street, and broke into a broad grin.

“I reckin Shin is done fell on Ready Rocket an’ squshed him; mebbe he’s done squoze Ready’s sore arm; mebbe Ready’s got de colics--I hopes so. I hopes all dem things is come to pass.”

* * * * *

About two hours after Shin Bone had taken his departure with little Ready Rocket, Mustard Prophet entered, looked around the barroom for a moment, then came over to Skeeter Butts, and inquired:

“Whar is Ready Rocket?”

“Gawd knows,” Skeeter replied. “He has went.”

“Happy Rocket sont me to fetch him home,” Mustard said. “She say it’s little Ready’s bedtime an’ he’ll git sleepy.”

“My stars an’ garters!” Skeeter exclaimed. “She don’t look fer dat brat home to-night, do she?”

“Suttinly. Whar is he at?”

Skeeter began to pant. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and looked around him desperately. His eyes lighted upon Pap Curtain.

“Come over dis way, Pap,” he called.

When Pap and Mustard stood side by side, Skeeter leaned over the bar and said earnestly:

“Pap, I want you an’ Mustard to keep bar fer me till I git back.”

“Dat suits us!” the two darkies chanted.

“I’ll tend to little Ready Rocket, Mustard,” Skeeter said as he reached for his derby hat.

As he passed out the two negroes looked at each other and grinned.

“Skeeter’s done kotch de mattermony germ agin,” Pap chuckled. “Tryin’ to hitch up wid Happy Rocket an’ her whelp. Lawd! Think of Skeeter marryin’ a widder an’ a ready-made fambly!”

Skeeter made a bee-line for Mustard Prophet’s cabin where Mrs. Happy Rocket could be found. But he had no matrimonial intentions.

“I jes’ drapped over to tell you ’bout little Ready Rocket, Happy,” Skeeter began as soon as he was seated. “Ready won’t be home to-night.”

“Won’t--_which_?” Happy’s voice was almost a scream.

“Ready’s gwine lay out to-night,” Skeeter remarked easily, lighting a cigarette.

“How come?” Happy wailed, and her voice had a note of hysteria.

“It happened dis way,” Skeeter replied. “Ready got a little sleepy an’ I spread him down a pallet on de flo’ in de rear room. A drunk bum named Shin Bone foun’ little Ready an’ thought it wus his own chile, so he picked him up an’ toted him off!”

Skeeter didn’t see any actuating cause for what followed this statement and the astounding result gave him the supreme sensation of his life.

Mrs. Happy Rocket sprang to her feet, spun round and round like a whirling dervish, tore at her hair, then wrapped her long arms around her head and screamed like a maniac!

“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Stop dat yelpin’--you’s fetchin’ dat bawl too high! A police will come an’ git you toreckly!”